"it's not you, it's not me"
(Originally published May 15, 2015)
Every good breakup happens because of what the courts call "irreconcilable differences," when one party utters the phrase,
"It’s not you, it’s me."
The other party knows it's over, but not always why. If he were to write an advice columnist to ask what the phrase might mean, the columnist – feeling especially saucy – might reply, "Honey, when they say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ what they mean is, ‘It’s you!’"
But it’s not. It’s not either.
As someone who’s known both sides, it’s not really not you, and it’s not really me.
It’s you and me together. That’s what it’s not not.
What it is, is us.
* * *
"Where is this going?"
Too many marriages have been coaxed into being by asking and answering this seemingly simple question, when a relationship is most vulnerable, incorrectly.
We're either getting married or we're breaking up. Which is it? Where is this going?
Tough question. People change. Situations change. In life, if you make long-term plans and stick to them no matter what, when all the odds are against you, odds are you're making a mistake. (I’m not against marriage, by the way. I’m for it. But that question is a killer.)
Don’t ask, “Where is this going?” Ask, “Where could this go?”
Imagine both you and your partner achieving your dreams. This will involve finding your "gift," or "calling," or "vocation" – whatever. Your success will hinge on how well you grow your talents and nurture the traits that define you, in order to receive this gift, answer this calling, find this vocation, whatever this whatever whatever.
If you’re honest, it’s not hard to guess if you could live with an amplified, empowered, totally-actualized version of your partner. If you're really, brutally honest, could they live with you? Would you be willing and able to help them get there? Would they be willing to help you?
* * *
I’m not on the verge of a breakup. I love my current relationship. I love my answer to “Where could this go?” But this isn’t just about relationships. Anytime you make a commitment, then break it, it feels the same; leaving a project, a job, a friendship, a city, a life behind.
Two examples:
1. I formally ended a working relationship with a writing partner because our creative processes were complete opposites. Where could this go? Even if we were successful as a team writing for films or TV - especially if we were successful - our differences would’ve driven us crazy. I not only said, "it’s not you, it’s me," but, "let’s just be friends." Because I did, we still are.
2. Upon being offered a promotion by that staffing company to be a branch manager in San Diego, I quit. I quit on the phone right after being asked. Where could this go? I didn’t want to be a manager at a staffing company. I didn’t want a promotion at all. It was a job I’d taken to support myself while doing other things; the higher up I got, the fewer options I’d have. Because I knew this, the choice was easy.
You can never fully know all possible endgames. But when the best potential endgame looks bad, get out. Get out, get out, get out.
* * *
One last example:
3. I just ended my once-monthly show, Mike Critelli’s Cavern of Whimsy. That means nothing to most people, but it does to me.
A year ago I signed a 12-month lease for a 55-seat theater in Hollywood. I’d been an ensemble performer and co-hosted a show in the past, and this was an opportunity to stretch myself. In theory, the fit was perfect; I had a background in standup, I did improvisational comedy and knew tons of improv performers (who are game for anything), I had a huge archive of old videos to show, and I created a segment for the first show - a slideshow tour of different districts of LA, described glowingly by a fellow performer as "like early David Letterman" - that I could use again and again as an anchor at the center of an ever-changing format.
But something happened... Nothing.
Each month, as I reached outside my circle to scout strong new performers, as I tweaked the stage setup, as I added a Facebook page and built a mailing list, as I grew more and more confident as a host and performer, the audiences dwindled.
I couldn't understand it. The shows were getting better! But the audiences were getting smaller! I mentioned this to my dad over the phone, the day after a show where the audience consisted of eight performers and two paying attendees, and he said, "That's not good."
"I know it's not good," I said.
Before that two-attendee show, I'd been optimistic: If I really work hard, if I learn to market myself and my show, if I find like-minded people to partner with, this could really go somewhere! After that show, I become realistic.
Where could this go?
55 seats. Once a month. Even if I jacked up the prices to $20 or $30 a head and sold out the whole theater, I'd barely cover rent after the costs were taken out. And that was a big "Even if." I wasn't anywhere near selling out at $10 a ticket. The opposite, in fact. I'd have to kill myself to achieve the show's best case scenario, which would be, for all practical purposes, awful.
The lease came up in May, and they asked if I wanted to renew.
Dear show: "it's not you, it's me."
(Hint: it's not me either.)
* * *
I started with the phrase "every good breakup" because every breakup is good. When one party doesn't see a future in the relationship, even if the other party still does, it's over.
But after a breakup? The "me and you" going nowhere is gone.
You get to build a new, better "me."
You can find a new "you" too.